


i wanna stick around, i wanna get my kicks

by fourailes



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi, Prison, awkward/awful release from prison after seven years
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-14
Updated: 2013-09-14
Packaged: 2017-12-26 09:12:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/964191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fourailes/pseuds/fourailes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two years ago that Grantaire had stopped visiting.<br/>One year since he’d moved to the other side of the country.</p><p>Enjolras has three years left before he can even think about leaving prison, but what exactly is waiting for him on the outside?</p>
            </blockquote>





	i wanna stick around, i wanna get my kicks

**Author's Note:**

> in which enjolras is kind of an asshole  
> (take a listen to "sick of me" by green day)
> 
>  
> 
> (work title taken from jailhouse rock--i know, i know)

“You didn’t need to come,” he mumbled, staring at a spot past Combeferre’s ear.

“We w--we wanted to.”

Enjolras, sharp as ever, didn’t miss the way Courfeyrac stumbled over the word. He didn’t mention it.

He nodded to them. “Thanks. I guess.”

“Feuilly wanted to come, too,” Combeferre offered.

“Uh-huh.”

Courfeyrac shrugged and started to reach for his hand before remembering the rules. “I’m sure if he could--”

“Shut up.”

Courfeyrac flinched. “I only meant--”

“I know what you meant.” Enjolras glared, his voice turning hard and his eyes growing cold. “We agreed. _Didn’t we_ ,” he added, at his friends’ hesitation.

Courfeyrac sort of shrugged again, and Combeferre nodded slowly. “What do you want to talk about, Enjolras?”

“I shouldn’t,” he replied. At their quizzical looks, he offered a half-hearted explanation. “I’m not ready to go back to solitary just yet.”

Swallowing hard, Courfeyrac tried to change the subject, although he was clearly dying to ask what Enjolras was doing to spend time in solitary. “So Cosette’s pregnant again.”

Enjolras raised an eyebrow as Combeferre cleared his throat loudly. “Uh, that’s great.” He paused, waiting for Combeferre’s next signal. “Congratulations,” he said slowly.

“Thanks.” Courfeyrac’s face lit up ever so slightly. “We decided we wouldn’t try to find out whose it was this time. Hell, it could be Bahorel’s for all we know! Or--uh, ‘Ferre’s or something.”

Enjolras nodded, ignoring Combeferre’s disappointed frown. After that, Courfeyrac sort of gave up talking, and they sat there in silence. It was much less pleasant than the days they’d spent doing homework and writing speeches for hours on end in college. Less pleasant even than the quiet nights spent in hospital waiting rooms and the long mornings spent trying to post bail.

Finally, Enjolras broke the silence. “Just tell me he’s doing okay.”

“He mi--” Courfeyrac began.

“He’s fine,” Combeferre broke in. “But we agreed not to talk about that, so we won’t,” he added firmly.

Enjolras grew stony-faced again and waved a guard over. “We’re done,” he said calmly.

Combeferre looked sad, and Courfeyrac forced a smile. “Happy birthday, bro,” he said, hugging Enjolras gently. Enjolras couldn’t hug him back (even if he’d wanted to), so he just shrugged awkwardly and nodded when Courfeyrac patted his shoulder. Combeferre touched his arm and smiled.

“Happy birthday, Enjolras,” he sighed.

Enjolras thought his best friend sounded tired. That would make sense, he supposed; everyone _outside_ had lives and jobs and families and reasons to be tired besides that they’d stared at the ceiling all night instead of sleeping.

But that wouldn’t stop him from staring at the ceiling all night tonight and thinking about what a selfish asshole he was.

“‘t worry,” Courfeyrac was saying. “Another three years and you’re out of here, I swear. Just don’t do anything...” he tried to think of the right word, and failed. “...stupid.”

Enjolras laughed, a hollow, awkward laugh that didn’t even sound like it came from him at all. “Sure.”

“I mean it.”

“So do I.”

They both waved from the doorway. “We’ll see you later, Enjolras,” Combeferre told him.

Enjolras shrugged. “Whatever.”

As the guard led him out of the visiting room and back inside the dark prison hallways, Enjolras suppressed the urge to look back. He really didn’t need the reminder.

When he was back in his cell, sitting stiffly on the bed, he glanced up at the ceiling--now more familiar to him than his friends’ faces. “Happy birthday to me,” he whispered.

* * *

It was well past lights out, but Enjolras traced his fingers along the scratches in his wall. He really didn’t have to keep track of the date by scribbling it on the wall, but he marked the months as they went by anyway. He didn’t know exactly why, but he found the grooves oddly comforting.

He started at the most recent and worked his way backwards. 

Four years he’d been here, in this exact same cell, almost to the day. Except for the weeks he’d spent intermittently in solitary confinement, of course. He always kept track of those, too, and added to his wall when he was allowed back in his shared cell. 

Three years ago that Montparnasse had been released on good behavior. 

Two years ago that Grantaire had stopped visiting. 

One year since he’d moved to the other side of the country and Enjolras had refused to talk about him.

Two weeks since Courfeyrac and Combeferre had come by on his birthday. 

One day since he’d gotten back from the 13 days in solitary. 

_Four years and five weeks since he’d punched a cop in the face._

The state had been pretty lenient before that, but with two strikes against him already, even having a prominent city lawyer as a father couldn’t keep Enjolras out of prison for assaulting a police officer.

When his father had refused to defend him ( _again_ , the implication), Courfeyrac had stepped up. Barely bar-certified and high on more than just life, but he charmed the jury, judge, bailiff, prosecution, and even Enjolras himself into feeling sorry for the unapologetic rabble-rouser. His sentence was shorter than he’d thought possible, and he’d be eligible for parole after seven years behind bars. _You can do seven years_ , Courfeyrac had whispered encouragingly. _We’ll visit you all the time,_ he promised, Grantaire and Bahorel and Feuilly and Joly and Jehan all nodding behind him.

Grantaire was still mad at him, when they hauled him off to the state penitentiary. Furious, even. But he’d come that very first weekend to visit, only to be turned away because Enjolras had been put into solitary confinement-- _for railing against the government, probably_ , Grantaire had said on his next visit, almost fondly. _My little rebel._ Enjolras had scowled and muttered something about freedom of expression, but Grantaire had gently reminded him that they took away his (yes, few) rights in prison anyway, and then he’d gotten kicked out for trying to make out with Enjolras right there in the visiting room.

His next visit had been shorter, stranger. _Got hired on at Feuilly’s place_ , he’d said, when the silence became unbearable. Enjolras had only rolled his eyes. _Do you want a cookie?_ he’d bitten out, voice hardened beyond mere sarcasm. _I know you don’t approve of real jobs, but at least I’m doing something with my life,_ Grantaire had snapped back. Enjolras had braced himself for the inevitable _prison_ comment, but it never came.

Not that visit.

Not the next.

Not the the one after that.

Then the visits stopped, but still the comment never came, not even over the phone.

Then Grantaire stopped taking his calls.

Combeferre said he’d moved, changed his number. _Out of necessity. He’s got a new job now, a new--_ That was when Enjolras had started shouting. He broke his longest streak ever (four months) and spent the next week in solitary for causing such a scene in the visiting room.

They didn’t talk about Grantaire after that.

Enjolras still calls him, sometimes. He’ll call Grantaire’s old number, pretending he’s just busy or they were fighting or maybe he’s asleep. _Pick up, asshole_ , he’ll growl into the receiver. _I’m still here_ is what he never says out loud. _Did you forget about me, too? Did you find somebody new and start a life with them? Somebody who doesn’t get arrested and supports your fucking job? Somebody who doesn’t try to make you feel bad about yourself when they get angry?_ That’s usually when the guy in line behind him calls him an asshole and tells him to quit staring at the silent receiver.

He flips the guy off, but obliges. Sometimes he gets back in line and calls Combeferre, but his best friend has been busy lately. Too busy to take calls from the pen, apparently. Enjolras can’t really blame him. All of his friends have gone on with their lives. And those lives don’t include him. How could they? He’d never meant for his life to get this fucked up, he’d never meant to get this fucked up. He’d never meant to fuck everything up so fucking badly.

And he wished Grantaire would pick up the phone, just once. Just so he could tell him.

_I fucked up. I’m--I didn’t mean to._

But he couldn’t even say that into the dead receiver.

* * *

He’d always assumed there was some kind of penalty that could be earned from too many stays in solitary confinement. But his seven years were up, and even though he’d literally been sent to solitary two weeks earlier, Courfeyrac still managed to coach him through his parole hearing, and he was getting out in three days. “Good behavior” could apparently be translated to “good lawyer”, which Enjolras snorted at, but he wasn’t complaining.

Courfeyrac had insisted on a party, but Enjolras told him in no uncertain terms that if anyone but their very closest friends was invited, he’d leave the state (country) and break his parole (quite a few laws) and they’d never hear from him again (like he’d be keeping in touch anyway).

He hoped Grantaire wouldn’t be there, he told Combeferre.

Combeferre, being Combeferre, nodded understandingly and then rolled his eyes when he thought Enjolras wasn’t looking. Courfeyrac, being Courfeyrac, made very sure that Enjolras was looking when he rolled his eyes.

It turned out Enjolras needn’t have worried. Grantaire texted Courfeyrac to say _so sorry. work is nuts. tell him congrats._

“Congrats?” Enjolras spat. “You just spent seven years in prison and I didn’t even visit for the last five and all your friends have gone on with their lives-- _congrats_!”

Feuilly bit his lip and looked down. Bossuet hid behind Joly, who pretended to be very interested in his ice cream spoon. Jehan looked like he desperately wanted to say something. Marius took little Jean out onto the patio, as Cosette frowned at the outburst. Eponine looked sad, and Bahorel just looked everywhere but at Enjolras.

Courfeyrac tapped out a reply (something like _yeah man i’ll tell him have fun working ;D_ ), and Combeferre led Enjolras into the kitchen to pour him a drink.

He was finally breathing evenly and sipping at a rum and coke when Courfeyrac’s phone started ringing.

“Are you sure?” Courfeyrac whispered into the receiver, cupping his hand around the phone as if it would block his voice from the rest of the room. “Of course he was... Probably. I think so. Yes. ...You don’t have to, you know.” Then he frowned a little and handed the phone to Enjolras. “He, um...he wants to talk to you.”

Enjolras took the phone from Courfeyrac gingerly, looking at it with a sort of wonder. A voice could barely be heard from the other end.

_“Enjolras?”_

Enjolras hurled the phone across the room, where it hit the wall with a sickening crunch, and not even Combeferre tried to follow him when he stormed out into the driveway.

* * *

He was living with Combeferre now, as part of his parole agreement, and volunteering at the community center with his friends. He’d been trouble-free for almost three months, not including the time he shouted obscenities at the director of the community center for the man’s (admittedly abhorrent) decision to cut funding to the programs for homeless teens. Combeferre and Courfeyrac were able to smooth things over well enough, but only Eponine knew why it had bothered him so much.

Less subtle was his increased involvement in programs helping kids recover from various addictions. He had a “real job” (as part of his parole agreement, of course), as an assistant at Courfeyrac’s firm. The position proved a terrible fit, so Courfeyrac told Enjolras he could just “work” from home, and Enjolras devoted more and more of his time to the community center.

He was forbidden (mostly by Combeferre) from participating in government protests or inciting even the most innocuous rebellions, but that didn’t stop him from helping Jean run for 2 nd grade student council or rewriting 68% of Bahorel’s dissertation (although he was probably the reason that even got finished, so his friends let it slide).

He hadn’t said a word about Grantaire since the night of the party, although Grantaire called Courfeyrac at least twice a week to ask how Enjolras was doing and promise that he had no intention of visiting. _I wouldn’t mind seeing Jean, though_ , he’d add wistfully, and Courfeyrac knew it was only a matter of time. What he didn’t count on, however, was Grantaire showing up at the community center without telling anyone he was in town.

* * *

“What are you doing here,” Enjolras said flatly, still facing the wall.

Grantaire shrugged. “Wanted to see you. I thought...”

“Courfeyrac didn’t tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

“I don’t want to see you. You have your life, I have mine.” Enjolras finally turned around. “If I break parole, that’s it for me. I’ve been doing well.”

“So I hear. Look, we don’t have t--”

“You’re right,” Enjolras cut in. “ _We_ don’t have to do anything. Just fuck off back to wherever you came from, and you can tell yourself you patched things up. I’m sure your boyfriend misses you.”

Grantaire shook his head slowly, not trusting himself to speak.

“Girlfriend, then,” Enjolras allowed.

“No, no...Enjolras--”

“Oh, and thanks for your text, by the way. That _congrats_ really meant a lot. Truly.” Enjolras didn’t even attempt to hide the bitterness in his voice.

“What was I supposed to say?” Grantaire demanded. “Sorry you spent seven years in prison, but it was your own damn fault?”

Enjolras cringed.

“Yeah,” Grantaire continued. “I heard about your little tantrum at the party. You know I didn’t mean it that way. I’m sorry I couldn’t--”

“It’s fine,” Enjolras snapped. “I’m sure Courfeyrac told you I didn’t want you there anyway.”

Grantaire blinked. “No, he didn’t.”

“Well I didn’t. I told him not to invite you.” Enjolras wasn’t trying to be cruel. He wasn’t sure where any of this was coming from, but it kept spilling out anyway. “I wanted the people there to be people who cared about me. People who visited. People who took my phone calls. Not people who bailed when it got a little too tough,” he snarled.

“I didn’t forget about you,” Grantaire said softly.

Enjolras turned away. “Courfeyrac mentioned you were ten years sober. _Congrats_.”

Without their earlier conversation, without their history, the comment could have been mistaken for a genuine compliment.

Grantaire walked back to his car without another word, tears stinging his eyes, and he didn’t see Enjolras turn to watch him go.

* * *

“What were you thinking?” Combeferre admonished, not quite so gently as he knew he should have.

“I wasn’t!”

Courfeyrac snorted. “Clearly.”

“Enjolras, if you want to make things r--”

“ _I didn’t do anything_.” Enjolras stood and crossed the room. “ _He_ abandoned _me_.”

Combeferre and Courfeyrac exchanged a look. “Enjolras, he... He gave you so many chances.” Combeferre regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth--and not only because of the expression on Enjolras’ face.

“....He left me,” Enjolras repeated, staring at Combeferre. “He was sick of trying to make things work, and he left me. He left me.”

Courfeyrac rose and put an arm around his shoulders. “Did you ever think,” he said softly, “maybe it wasn’t just because of you?”

Looking almost hopeful, Enjolras paused his attempt to pace. “Did he, did he say that?”

“Not...in so many words,” Courfeyrac admitted. “But did you ever ask him how _he_ was doing while you were...away?”

“Prison. You can say it, Courfeyrac.” Enjolras scowled. “I was in prison.”

“Did you?” Courfeyrac pressed.

“Well...well, no. But--”

“He was a fucking mess,” Combeferre broke in. “He blamed himself, said if you two hadn’t fought you never would have been out that night, never would have gotten drunk and done something so _stupid_. He was entirely wrong, of course. We all knew it. You’ve always been reckless; if it wasn’t that, it would have been something else. There’s always _something_ , Enjolras. Always some cause, some rebellion, that you put before your friends. Before Grantaire.” Enjolras opened his mouth, anger coloring his face, but Combeferre raised a hand. “He didn’t deserve to take a backseat to your ego the rest of his life. I’ve made my peace with it, but Grantaire blames himself.”

Even Courfeyrac looked incredulous.

“Well,” Enjolras said finally. “I didn’t know you felt that way, ‘Ferre. I’ll pack tonight.”

Courfeyrac looked between the two, waiting for Combeferre to break down laughing and admit that it was all some ridiculous joke.

“Maybe that would be for the best,” Combeferre agreed instead.

Putting a hand on his friend’s shoulder, Courfeyrac led Enjolras into the guest bedroom. “You can have our couch for the night,” he murmured. “I’ll help you pack.”

* * *

Enjolras tried to take comfort in the fact that Combeferre didn’t hate him, at least. He’d agreed to keep telling the parole officer that Enjolras lived with him, and Enjolras agreed to not actually live there. It had probably been a long time coming, he figured, for Combeferre to allow himself an outburst like that. He never would have said anything if Grantaire hadn’t been involved, too, but Enjolras tried to tell himself it was all for the best. He was hardly well-suited to living out of a backpack, but seven years in prison knocked at least a little bit of the spoiled rich boy out of him.

He slept on Courfeyrac’s couch for two nights, helping Jean with his homework and actually doing a couple of work-related things for Courfeyrac. The second night, he cooked dinner before Cosette got home from work, and then he packed his things and disappeared in the morning before Marius got up to take Jean and Euphrasie to school.

That resulted in a concerned text from Courfeyrac, but Enjolras assured him everything was fine and added that he was staying with Eponine for the weekend. It wasn’t strictly true, seeing as he hadn’t asked her yet, but she hugged him and pulled out an old air mattress. He stayed for two and a half weeks before insisting that he was in the way and promising her he had a spot on Feuilly’s couch for the next few days.

Feuilly had said “anytime” so Enjolras didn’t bother to call before showing up at his apartment door. He probably wasn’t even home, but Enjolras knocked anyway, letting his backpack fall to the ground. A voice called “just a sec!” and another voice said something softer, less distinct.

The door swung open and Feuilly’s face fell for half a second before he returned to the smile he usually offered Enjolras.

“Um, hey, Enjolras! Eponine finally kick you out, huh?”

Enjolras heard movement inside and resisted the urge to crane his head around the door. “No, no, I just didn’t want to be in the way. Your offer still stand?”

Feuilly nodded, but he wouldn’t meet Enjolras’ eyes. “Sure, sure, of course! Absolutely. Just...um...maybe now isn’t such a--”

A hand grabbed the door and swung it wider, revealing the tiny apartment’s other occupant. Feuilly stood by, resigned.

“Hey, Enjolras,” Grantaire sighed.


End file.
